


Absolute Command

by Zerrat



Category: Dissidia: Final Fantasy
Genre: Community: ffchaoticcosmos, Gen, Implied Torture, Meta, Mind Control, Villain PoV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zerrat/pseuds/Zerrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Emperor plots his next move in the chess game of Order and Discord. The ability to transcend the divine rules set down by the gods is a powerful ability indeed, one that he intends to claim for his own. Not compliant with 012. Applicable warnings are in the notes at the start of the chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolute Command

**Author's Note:**

> Gift exchange submission for lj user **obscureguardian!** Hope you enjoy what I’ve come up with, man, that the Emperor is being plotty and ruthless enough for you. Using Australian English spelling of things, if there are any questions regarding that.
> 
> As for warnings, there are mentions of character death, and the implication of torture to follow at the end of the fic, though this is not covered graphically. There is mind control, however.

The glittering halls of Pandaemonium were silent, the great and vaulted rooms empty, and the antechamber devoid of all life. The man in fine silks and ornate, polished golden armour entered the antechamber, surveying the jeweled chamber with a critical eye.

There was none of the hustle and bustle, none of the chaos and disorder of _living_ that he so despised. The Emperor paused, slightly amused at the direction of his thoughts. Yes, there was something to be said of Order’s merits, when all things were said and done. For without Order, there was no place for absolute command, no place for one such as he. Just mindless anarchy as meaningless insects went about their daily tasks. Without Order, there would be no greater purpose; there would be no need to serve him. That would just _not_ do.

The Emperor reclined against his delicately carved throne – made from the very finest in dark crystal, and nothing less would suffice. He would concede that the palace was an accurate imitation of Pandaemonium, but an imitation nonetheless.

He let his displeasure show on his face at that, as one lazy gesture floated a goblet of fine, spiced wine to his outstretched hand. Naught but an imitation, to be destroyed time and time again at the whims of gods. When this war was over, this palace would again be reformed. Just as the palace, so would he be remade to fight yet another battle at the behest of Chaos. The knowledge – so painstakingly acquired – rankled like nothing else. He took a delicate sip of the wine, letting the complex flavours burn down his throat.

No, he might be forced to bend to one knee, to fight for Discord, but that was never what the Emperor had craved and sought in his years. He was the antithesis. Absolute rule, complete control over the insects of his world. A chill ran down his spine at the thought. The only reason he’d seen fit to bow his head to Chaos, was because that _god_ had promised him unimaginable power. Such power that controlling the minds and wiping the desires of rebels, such as the obstinate Firion of the Wild Rose Rebellion, would be but a hand wave away.

The Emperor had yet to catch but a glimmer of this promised power, and so it was that he began to plot against Order and Discord. He was the Emperor, not some hedgewitch, fallen knight or absurdly over-wrought caricature of a warlock! No. He would not – _could_ not – stand such a grievous insult. Redressing this insult was what had taken him to his seat of power this day. It was a half-formed idea, a malicious glint of a plot-

An absurd giggle had the audacity to interrupt his time of reflection and contemplation, and the Emperor looked up. A shade of annoyance passed over his face for an instant, before he smoothed it away. To control others, first you must be the master of _yourself._ A lesson he’d well learned.

The insane clown near _bounced_ into the Emperor’s line of vision, waving enthusiastically in his direction.

“Oh tall, gold and gruesome? If you ever have the nerve to _summon_ me again, don’t expect yourself to survive standing near cliffs. _Comprehende?”_ The clown – one Kefka Palazzo – slapped his thigh, as if he’d made the most wonderful joke in the world.

The Emperor was not deceived by his foolish airs. Kefka was no mere court jester, and dismissing him as such was a sure method of tempting one’s fate. That overly-theatrical bird Kuja had learned that early on, and the Emperor had seen fit to remain… wary.

He remained seated as Kefka arrived before him, and he met the mad clown’s beady green eyes steadily. No matter how dangerous Kefka could be, the Emperor Mateus Palamecia would bow his head to none! Seconds passed, and then Kefka merely shrugged, but his eyes were too knowing, his wide, painted grin too smug.

Kefka Palazzo was a being that the Emperor abhorred. If the Emperor was absolute order, then this creature was absolute discord. There was no method to his madness, no reason for the anarchy he caused, no _purpose._ No _goal._ It was simple, wanton _destruction._ It was uncontrolled _rage._ He played games in a chess match between gods, yet did not see the greater game afoot! To a man of control, of absolute command? Kefka was the most disgusting individual that the Emperor had ever come across, no matter that he could level a mountain with a thought.

But Kefka had achieved something, something so magnificent, so terrible, that it had brought the Emperor pause. Upon Ultimecia’s reports, he’d immediately wanted – no, _needed_ – to learn how it was accomplished.

Perhaps without even knowing the sheer significance of his actions, Kefka had transcended the rules of this game of Order and Discord. He’d captured one of Cosmos’ warriors, enslaved her to fight for Chaos, to fight against her natural allegiances. The implications were astounding.

“Did you bring the girl?” the Emperor asked, allowing bored disinterest lace his tone as he took another sip of spiced wine. It would not do to let Kefka see his eagerness. The clown as vindictive as the worst of Chaos’ summoned, after all. If he believed that the Emperor truly wanted this information, why, Kefka would see to it that the Emperor would _not_ obtain it.

Kefka rolled his eyes, and he extended a hand out to his side. “Hold your chocobos, Dazzler, I’m getting to it!”

The clown snapped his fingers, and there was a puff of smoke. The Emperor did not even twitch at the bang, nor at the acrid, foul-smelling smoke. His eyes were only drawn to the girl that had suddenly appeared at Kefka’s right hand. Terra Branford, was it? Yes, he recalled that name well. This slip of a girl had the audacity to have killed him in a previous war, the Emperor noted with curled lip as he rose smoothly to his feet. His goblet of wine rested, forgotten, on the arm of his crystal throne.

The Emperor carefully circled her, his eyes taking in every angle, every scrap of cloth, every piece of jewelry. How had Kefka done it? How had he taken a pawn of Cosmos? The Emperor reached out to grab Terra’s chin and force her to look into his eyes, when Kefka’s pale, bony hand shot out and smacked it away.

“Uh uh _uh,_ no touchy the girl. That’s just for _papa.”_

The Emperor merely nodded, his features carefully schooled. Within his mind, he swore that he would see that clown dead for his insolence.

Instead, he leaned in, meeting the girl’s eyes and fixing her with a piercing gaze. Though she was clearly alive and sentient, behind those blue eyes, there was no person looking back at him. Just a blank stare, all prior personality wiped from existence by whatever Kefka had done.

The Emperor leaned back, thoughtful. It was as he suspected, then. This Terra Branford was an incomplete pawn. A true pawn would never know that they were being controlled by a chess master before the end – something that many of his Chaos-sworn colleagues had repeatedly failed to learn. If the puppet knew a game was afoot, then they were harder to predict and control. This Terra Branford knew she was being controlled, hence the blankness in her eyes, and there would always be resistance. Inside, she would be screaming and fighting back with all her strength as she was forced to do Kefka’s bidding.

And so Kefka would never hold absolute command over the girl.

But the fact that Kefka had achieved even this level of control was fascinating. If it were possible to create a temporary piece of Chaos, then was it possible to create a permanent one of Cosmos’ legion? A true pawn. The Emperor looked into Terra’s eyes again, considering. A heart of light, set in a body corrupted by Chaos and darkness… He needed more time to plan, more information! Something had to be done. Sharply, he turned away from the pawn, away from Kefka.

He’d make an offer that Kefka would never refuse.

The Emperor kept his voice level and disinterested as he took up his goblet. “Clown. Ultimecia informs me that you desire the location of one Sephiroth. If you would but let me have an hour alone with this creature, I will tell you all I know. His plans, his allies, his location.”

“And you think I wanna just go have a little _chat_ with that wannabe god?” Kefka chuckled at that, a wheezing, high-pitched sound. His voice became darker and more menacing as he continued. “I intend to rip the mama’s boy limb from limb.”

The Emperor knew exactly what Kefka would do to Sephiroth the next time they met. But the swordsman had been getting to be quite the thorn in the Emperor’s side. How did that quaint colloquialism go? He sipped his wine. Two birds with one stone, indeed.

“Such petty games matters not to me. Leave us, clown, before I change my mind.”

Kefka sketched a mocking bow, muttering lowly and darkly under his breath as he did so, and vanished from the antechamber with a sharp _crack_ of magic. The stench of ozone lingered in the air in the wake of Kefka’s departure. The Emperor paused for a moment, needing to be certain he was alone with the girl, before he began to chuckle. Such a wonderful tool, presented to him on a silver platter! It had only cost him that troublesome and arrogant swordsman, too.

The Emperor turned back to Terra, no longer concealing his need to _know._ Her blue eyes remained blank as he circled her one last time, but did he catch her shivering? He’d discover what magic Kefka had used to incompletely control her mind, even if she screamed until her throat tore and her skin was naught but shredded muscle by the end. He would know.


End file.
